Chameleon
by moxie sauce
Summary: She dyes her hair red and watches the stained water trickle down the drain. He comes in and the handsome ones don't usually seek her out so she's curious. But she's a different person now, so she just sits back and smiles.


**Author'a note: okay, i have no idea where this came from. Plot bunny i guess. I might try to extend but it really depends. the story is kinda ambiguous and when i stumbled on it in the depths of my laptop even i was kinda confused at the start as to what's going on. i'll put some more background info at the bottom; don't read it if you want to imagine the situation yourself. Well... enough of my mindless chatter. Onwards!**

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She's whatever you want her to be.

In that sense she's _perfect_. She can't ever make a mistake in your eyes.

Because it's not _her_ sitting in front of you. Laughing at your bad jokes.

It's who you _want_ her to be.

How _bad_ do you _want _it? How much would you _pay_ for the illusion?

It can be a lot.

It depends who _you_ are and who you _want_ her to be.

You can't just be anyone.

She charges and you pay upfront for that tiny sliver of _perfection_ that you crave. That you so desperately _need_.

What do you want?

Her face is waiting for _you_ to paint a mask on.

Her voice is _yours _to play with.

Her body is _your_ canvas.

At least if you pay.

But it's not _her._

_It's who you want her to be._

That's the big secret.

She stays sane that way.

It's _hard _you know.

I think ever _she's_ started to forget who she is.

But that's just between you and me because no one wants her upset do they? She can be mean when she's upset. She ca the illusion and leave you howling in the middle of the broken pieces while you try to put it all back together.

She can be so _mean_.

But that's not really her. No no no no.

I'll let you in on it.

_Nobody knows._

Everyone who used to had forgotten and she's _made herself forget._

No one misses her because they're not sure who too miss.

But for the right price she can be your special friend.

She never meets him until the job. Her hair has to be red as written in the instructions. Her clothes have to be black, black shiny heels and a black dress with black tights that have been sent to her with the letter. She stands in the mirror after the last of the blood that marks the start of her new death runs off her hair and down the drain. It stains her hands and she wonders if she showered it in would it dye the whole of her body too? Until she's one big bloody mess? But she just watches it go and thinks about if she likes the new colour.

She can't find an answer so she puts on the clothes and waits. Waits for the next knife to walk through the door and plunge itself into her chest.

Maybe it'll be the poison this time, she muses to herself, the type that infects slowly and painfully; finishing the job before she even knows she's died a little more.

He's there at quarter to ten. He's handsome and the handsome ones don't normally seek her out for her renowned services so she's curious. He must be wealthy too, he affords her substantial fees and and even gives a little more. Her curiosity deepens.

But she's someone else now. A girl who he loves and doesn't love him back. A girl he's sacrificed this much of himself to have. Even if it isn't really her.

She smiles as soon as he comes in and he smiles back delightedly. He's tired but happy, she can tell.

"Tasha!" He proclaims, smiling wide enough to display the two rows of pearly white teeth to her.

They talk all night.

And as they talk she can almost feel someone taking a gun and blowing her to bits, piece but piece because now she doesn't want to be herself. She want to be this girl.

No, not girl. _Woman_.

She wants to be the person who this man _loves_.

She hates that word now because she can't stand it. Can't stand that he _hateful word_s someone else. Someone who isn't her.

As he talks to her she can tell he loves her, or the _other woman_.

He listens intently to her every word. Hangs of her sentences. Watches every twitch of her finger or bat of an eyelash as if it's one more something to be _coveted_, _loved_ about this unknown woman.

She tries her best to act how this woman would. Self-assured, funny, sexy, intelligent.

But all the while she wishes she was _more._

_She wishes she was this woman._

Because this unknown woman. She's so _stupid_ not to love this man.

He's even more perfect than her; the girl who can do no wrong.

He laughs and smiles and talks animatedly.

And with every word.

Every brush of the hand.

Every fucking _smile._

He steals her heart and _smashes_ it in equal portions.

She _wants _him.

She wants him but she can't have him because he wants _her._

This _stupid stupid stupid _other woman.

She's never been in love before. She's not even sure what it feels like. But she's sure that the breathes caught in her throat, the heartbeats hammering in her ears _must_ be it. Because she's sure she _loves _him.

But it's such a _messy_ word. A messy messy word with a meaning that turns people to her door. Forces people to find _her_. Forces people to do horrible horrible stupid stupid things.

Things that she's sure she'd do one day if she _can't can't can't_ be with this man.

Because she's _sure_ she loves him.

Her heart is messy and oh-so _cruel_ for forcing her to love someone who loves another so much he'd go to _her_.

But she tries to forget. Tries to convince her _messy messy_ heart that she's that girl. The one he _wants._

She can sometimes imagine her.

Can _see_ her.

Almost so very nearly _picture _her.

The arrogant smirk.

The commanding _confident _voice.

_She _knows who she is.

The _beautifulbeautifulbeautiful _face.

She _had_ to be beautiful. Ravishing. Enough to make this perfect man love her.

She chokes on the words sometimes and has to say them to the mirror to remind herself.

_Helovesherhelovesherhelovesherhelovesherhelovesher ._

It's a rush to say because she doesn't _want _to.

But what she wants doesn't matter. It never did. It never does.

It doesn't matter if her heart skips and dances and runs in circles when his hand brushes hers. It doesn't matter that her breathes speed up then stop then speed up as though doing wind sprints. It's doesn't fucking _matter. _

His smiles, his words, his laughs, his touches.

They all belong to _her._

_The other woman._

And she doesn't _want _them.

She wants to scream about the injustice of it all.

She wants to scream and rant and rave and cry and laugh and smile and _feel._

_But she doesn't_.

She just talks to him and smiles politely while he gives her that adoring smile that she has to remind herself _isn't for her._

It's raining outside. Thunder's booming. Lightnings cracking while he tosses her about the room like a rag doll.

He came in hours before howling like a lost animal.

"WHY TASHA WHY? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

She doesn't even want to tell him she _isn't Tasha._ Doesn't want to tell him it's _notherfault._ Doesn't want to tell him that she would _never hurt him that way._

She doesn't say anything.

He's angry and broken and lost.

He's punching her in the stomach and his fists and feet and _rage_ is raining down on her like hail but she doesn't _care._

She doesn't _care_ when he pins her to the wall and squeezes her neck until she thinks she's going to pass out.

She doesn't_ care _when he's screaming at her sososososo _loudly _in that broken voice; accusing her of things she _didn'twouldn't_ do.

She doesn't _care_ when he slaps her in the face and kicks when she's down while howling about _how could she do this to him?_

_She doesn't care._

Because this is _love._

She wonders about what _she _did to him. He's always so cheerful. So _happy._

So _calm_.

But she doesn't_ care _that it hurts and he's _hurting _her because she's seeing more of him.

She _does care_ when he stops and she's just a bruised, bloody, broken _loving _mess on the floor and just to break her up that tiny bit more he starts calling her _Tasha_.

But coming from his mouth it sounds like a caress. She wishes her name was Tasha. She wishes it so she could pretend he's talking to her. Talking to _her. _

He soothes her, or _Tasha_ to sleep all the while saying in that same _broken _voice about how _sorry_ he is.

She lies there like a puppet who's strings have been cut.

The matinee is over.

The performance has been done.

And she still lies there in the closing scene.

She's broken.

He still loves _Tasha._

He can't love _her._

_But she still loves him._

She sees him again two weeks later. She's thinner, tired, sad, bruised, broken.

And he talks to _her._

Not to _Tasha_ but to _her._

He wants to know _her_ name.

She doesn't know.

He wants to know _her_ age.

She doesn't know.

She wants to know who he _wants_ her to be.

He smiles and tells her _no one._

He wants her to be _herself._

She doesn't know how so he tries to teach her.

It's not much but it's a start.

And she's so veryveryvery fucking _happy._

* * *

**_Warning, don't read if you don't wanna know:_**

**Sooo... that basic ****idea had when i was writing this was that Clint is in love with Natasha and she either a) doesn't love him back or b) is too professional to endanger their awesome partnership or c) whatever reason you can think of! **

**Clint is depressed and goes to find a prostitute to dress up as Natasha so he can have his lovey dovey time. Now, as you may have guessed, real Natasha does something that makes Clint angry s he beats up fake Natasha who is in love with Clint. Confused? I am too. So in the end real Clint goes to see fake Natasha again and wants to talk to her.**

**I can imagine real Clint and fake Natasha dating, it would be awkward if he ever had to introduce her.**

**random ass person: so... where did you two meet?**

**Clint: oh, i paid her to dress up as Tasha and one day I was mad and beat the shit out of her then I felt bad so I went to talk to her. We never looked back.**

**Fake Natasha: Clint... who's that person that looks a lot like the photo you showed me so I knew how to do my makeup?**

**Clint: Aw shit...**

**This could actually be pretty funny.**


End file.
